Grow Tired of Me
by hopelesslyhalfhearted
Summary: You think of growing tired of everything about him; his smile; his corny jokes; his not so corny jokes; the way he insists on making coffee in a pot on the hob like in American diners; his penchant for abysmal music.


_**I wrote this well before the last series had even started and just happened to find it on a memory stick.  
>Also, apologies for my lack of updating. It's been a pretty hectic month, plus I lost loads of stuff when my computer crashed. <strong>_

You know that he's crept through the front door and is now waiting hesitantly outside the bedroom, trying to judge whether you have stopped crying. He never was or will be good at being stealth; you thank god that pathologists aren't actually required to do detective work in real life as often as on TV programs, for you are sure if it were the case, he would have gotten himself into a lot of trouble by now; in fact, you're at a loss as to how he hasn't been in more life threatening situations in his long career – you're definitely at the forefront of that particular department.

"You know, if you stop being so adamant that we're not going to work out, we might actually stand a chance of being a fully functional couple." He sits down on the bed next to you and as soon as he does, you stand and move quickly over to the dressing table. "I'm not luring you into a trap,"

You know, somewhere deep down inside, that his words are probably true - but you're not used to having somebody who wants to accept and understand every part of you, someone who wants to do more than just go on dates and have sex; if that was all he wanted or needed, you could deal with that. But it wasn't. Because it was _him_. And he wants to talk; about feelings and family and futures. He wants to be told off for leaving the toilet seat up or insist on doing random spots of DIY here and there. He needs you to let him wipe your tears away, instead of refusing to cry. He needs you to let him tell you how much he loves you, without fearing that you will get scared and leave him forever. And sometimes, though not as often he needs to say it, he needs to hear the words 'I love you' escape your lips. He needs you to let him in.

"Have you come to pick up your stuff?" You don't dare look at his face, for you're sure that if you do, you'll end up melting on the spot. You've spent 2 hours getting yourself ready for his entrance and you'll be damned if he has you wrapped around his little finger within seconds of stepping into the room. It doesn't matter that you can't actually remember what had caused the argument in the first place; all your arguments can be traced back to one particular problem – your fear.

You thought everything would be easier this time – it was _him_, how could you possibly be scared of _him _breaking your heart? You thought that for once you wouldn't make such an effort to guard yourself from someone; you thought you'd be able to surrender yourself. You still desperately wanted to. But the prospect of the unimaginable pain that would be caused if things didn't turn out right, kept you from ever doing that.

"That depends." Why couldn't he have just answered yes? Time already felt like it was passing by in slow motion, why did he have to prolong it even further?

"What on?" You pretend to be busy, but even as you flitter around the room, you're not really sure what you're being busy at. Maybe you should pretend to make the bed? You feel a pang of anger when you remember he'd been the last out of bed in the morning, it was his turn to make it; could he not do anything without being asked?

Part of you wishes that you had told him that you didn't care how many variables there were for it to depend on, it was never going to work and it was time you both accepted that - you couldn't work because he was too desperate for you to take his heart and you were too hell bent on not letting anyone get anywhere near yours. But then the other part, the larger portion, told you to play along – because you'd looked up into his twinkling orbs and you'd let your eyes linger for a little too long on the slight hint of a smile that told you he had a hunch that you were going to give in, yet again.

"Whether you grow tired of me."

You think of the possibility of eventually getting fed up of waking up to the smell of burnt food whenever he decides to experiment in the kitchen or of finally losing your patience with one of his numerous childish pranks. You wonder if it's even possible for you to get bored of hearing him ramble on about the brilliance of Biggles. You think of growing tired of everything about him; his smile; his corny jokes; his not so corny jokes; the way he insists on making coffee in a pot on the hob like in American diners; his tendency to forget where he's placed things; his penchant for abysmal music; his insistence of watching a little bit of The Office _every_, single night, even if he only has time for a 5 minute snippet.

You wonder if he'll finally stop sending you those chain emails (which most of the time consist of dressed up animals) if you break up with him. You guess he won't phone you every hour when he's away at a conference, regardless of how many times you tell him you're incredibly busy; maybe he'll at last stop moaning about your insistence that he must spend at least 2 nights of the week at his place, although, you realise, if you do break up with him, the likely hood of him ever visiting (never mind staying the night) is very slim. You think of never having to nag him about making the bed.

Wait.

Did you just suggest that you _nag _Harry?

You back track.

You did.

You admitted to nagging Harry. You've been doing exactly what he always wanted you to.

Oh Christ.

How have you let that happen?

You are part of a stereotypical couple. You've become _the _girlfriend. You've never been _the _girlfriend, or _the _one. You've had your mind so focussed on not letting him in, that you didn't realise he'd always been in, from the very start.

You feel foolish for ever being so scared.

You smile.

He seems a little surprised – you're even more surprised – that was not the reaction you were expecting from yourself at your revelation.

"_Whether you grow tired of me." _His words resound in your head.

"Absolutely." You try your hardest not to smile – how could you ever grow tired of him?

"Will you throw me out when I get sick?"

"Definitely."

"If I watch too much telly?"

"Out the door without a second thought."

"Leave me if I become bankrupt and penniless?" You're now leant against the windowsill, staring at him.

"Most certainly."

"If I get depressed and lose my mind?" He stands up and makes his way over to you, a large grin spread across his face. You wonder if he knows what you've finally figured out.

"I'll send you a card."

"And what about when I get very, very old and lose all my memories, Miss Alexander?" He mumbles, as he begins to lean towards you.

"I'll let you know." You let him kiss you. Part of you feels like you need to say those 3 important words – he deserves to hear them from you at last – but the moments seems so perfect without them.

You decide you can wait until later – after all, you have until he's very, very old and without a memory.

Or, possibly until you grow tired of his reluctance to make the bed, but you'll just have to wait and see.


End file.
